The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘O what's the news from England?’ the grey old Mother said,
‘And what's the news about my sons, and are they quick or dead?
I've waited on for many a year and prayed beside the sea,
Remembering how they drew the sword and swore to set me free!’
‘O Mother, sure thy sons survive, tho' better they had died,
They palter with the faith they learn'd before they left thy side;
Among the camp fires of thy foes the Fratricides are seen,
They hang upon the Tyrant's nod, and blush to wear the Green!’

‘My eyes are dim with weeping,’ the grey old Mother said,
‘The chains are still upon my hands, the sackcloth on my head;
I blest my sons before they went and deem'd them leal and true,
And eagerly with leaping hearts across the seas they flew.’
‘O Mother, what was sown in pride thy sons now reap in scorn,
They help'd the pandars and the priests to slay thine Eldest-born,
Then for his raiment casting lots they reached out hands obscene,
Dishonouring the noble dead who best had loved the Green!’

‘Green be his grave in England, who loved me long and well,
May never freemen welcome back the butchers of Parnell!

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I deem them sons of mine no more, I brand them sons of Cain,
Who slew their brother over there, the bigot's smile to gain!’
‘O Mother, sure not all thy sons are false and base like those,
Not all have traded truth and faith to win the English rose;
Among thy children over there are some whose hands are clean,
And these shall yet unbind thy chains, and glorify the Green!’

‘O what's the news from England?’ the grey old Mother cried,
‘Now he is slain, my Eldest-born, who stands as chief and guide?
What souls are false, what souls are true of all that bear my name,
What son of mine shall lift me up and save me out of shame?’
‘O Mother, sure they follow now the feeblest of thy clan,
A peddler with a woman's heart, and not an Irish man!
And in his train the turncoat and the sycophant are seen,
And day by day dishonour comes to those who wear the Green!

‘And over there in England, the Saxon who had sworn
To break thy bonds and set thee free has laughed thy woes to scorn;
For in the City's Square they raise a likeness hewn in stone
To honour him who broke thy heart and left thee here alone!
Mother, remember Drogheda, and all thy woes of old,
And curse the butcher Cromwell's name a thousand thousandfold,
Trust not the slaves that honour him who thy worst scourge has been,
But turn again from friends so false to those who wear the Green!

‘We are the sons who love thee, O Erin, Mother dear!
We've borne thy Cross and blest thy name from weary year to year!
We've shamed the fratricidal crew who take thy name in vain,
We've fought for Ireland foot by foot although our Chief lay slain;
There's hope for thee and Freedom yet, so long as we are true,
Our birthright still remains to us although our ranks are few,—
Please God we'll save our country yet, and keep its record clean,
And preach from Cork to Donegar the wearing of the Green!’